


The Luxury of Friendship

by StarryNox



Series: Dedue Week 2020 [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Gen, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), intsys robbed us of supports between dedue & petra / claude / cyril, slightly canon divergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:00:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22166032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarryNox/pseuds/StarryNox
Summary: When Dedue first arrived at the Officer's Academy at Garreg Mach, he was convinced that he didn't want--or need--friends.He ends up with some anyway.Written for Dedue Week 2020 Day 3: Friends / School
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic & Dedue Molinaro, Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert & Dedue Molinaro, Dedue Molinaro & Claude von Riegan, Dedue Molinaro & Cyril, Mercedes von Matritz & Dedue Molinaro, Petra Macneary & Dedue Molinaro
Series: Dedue Week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593397
Comments: 13
Kudos: 67





	The Luxury of Friendship

When Dedue first steps out of the carriage that brought him and His Highness all the way from Fhirdiad to the Officer’s Academy at Garreg Mach, his highest hope is that perhaps fewer glares will follow his back everywhere he went—a hope which is dashed by the time he learns he had been assigned a dormitory on the first floor while Dimitri had been assigned one on the second. Realistically, he knows that His Highness is perfectly safe while ensconced in the monastery’s walls, and though Dimitri had grown apart from his old friends over the years Dedue has known him, neither Sylvain nor Felix would ignore His Highness should the worst occur.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if they had been separated out of a belief that he might harm His Highness. Even in Castle Fhirdiad, where Dedue had always been the prince’s devoted shadow, such rumors persisted. Dedue, for his part, ignored them. Prince Dimitri knew that he was loyal, and that was enough.

After all, his life is not his own--not when he owes the prince a life debt and pins his hopes for a kinder Faerghus and a restored Duscur upon the crown. He is but a man who has sworn to be both shield and axe for the prince until the day he becomes king. And thus, he does not need friends.

That those around him do not endanger His Highness or prevent Dedue from carrying out his duty is enough. He doesn’t need any more than that—or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

Convincing himself that he doesn’t _want_ any more than that is much harder. But, he reminds himself, the more he wants, the more he will hurt, in the end. And the less he reaches for, the less he has to lose. After that, it is easier to pack the longing in his chest into a box pushed into a far corner of his mind.

Yes…friends are a luxury he does not need.

Still, it would be rude to ignore Ashe, his classmate and dormitory neighbor, when he greets Dedue so cheerfully in the mornings. Especially when the boy, his near opposite between his pale, freckled skin and outgoing demeanor, spends so much time in the same places Dedue does—in the greenhouse, tending to a plot of soil right next to his, in the kitchens, cooking meals bursting with flavor, a welcome reprieve from the limited palate that most at the monastery seem to prefer.

When Ashe at last sidles up to him in the kitchens, looking unusually shy as he asks Dedue to teach him what he knows of cooking, it’s a relief. Dedue is accustomed to others wanting something from him—usually a chance at His Highness’s favor or a task’s completion. Were he the sort of person to crave the company of others, he might have been disappointed. As it stands, he is just relieved that the younger boy’s actions have a motive he can name.

And so, he patiently answers each of the boy’s questions, offering insight into what flavors work well together and what tastes best from season to season—the sorts of things he learned from standing at his mother’s elbow, back when he was too young to join his father in the forge. Ashe is an eager learner, and while Dedue has always looked forward to the weeks when the archer was on kitchen-duty, the incorporation of his advice into Ashe’s cooking was rewarding in its own way.

But then, Ashe’s questions start wandering away from cooking and toward Dedue himself, and he balks. Dedue reminds him of the distance between them, even tells him that he’s a peculiar person, but Ashe only grins and insists that he’d like to be friends.

It would be cruel, to tell him no. More than that, though, Ashe is one of the few students who don’t look at him with some mixture of fear, disdain, or disgust. Dedue thought himself accustomed to such treatment, yet the lightness he feels when he is alone with Ashe, away from hateful gazes, makes it that much harder to breathe under everyone else’s scrutiny.

His brows furrow the moment he makes such a realization. This is exactly what he thought would happen. Now that he has experienced such easy camaraderie, he is afraid to lose it. He tells himself that is why he continues to humor Ashe, to accept his invitations to spend time together outside of class.

But, when he finds himself able to speak of his homeland to Ashe without fear bubbling in his chest and to even admit how tiring it is to face the others’ hatred day after day, he knows that what they have is more than that.

Against his better judgment, Dedue has made a friend.

If it would be rude to ignore Ashe, it is certainly terrible to ignore Annette when she lets out a shriek from somewhere in the kitchens, the loud bang of…. _something_ echoing through the space. He strides through the open door to the kitchens to find a blackened mess, smoke filling the room and making Annette cough into the sleeves of her uniform.

She is unharmed, thankfully, but the same cannot be said for the pan she’d been using—how she had managed to cause it to _explode_ is beyond him, but he nonetheless offers his assistance in cleaning the resulting mess and in preventing further chaos. He tells himself that the latter is only practical. She is the one on kitchen duty this week, after all, and it would be truly terrible if the other students arrived and found nothing to eat.

Cooking with Annette is nothing like cooking with Ashe—the latter will often ask his opinion from time to time but is capable of cooking on his own without incident. Not that Annette isn’t capable—she is merely distractible, but he’s beginning to wonder if that is the greater hazard. Ashe moves through the kitchen silently when he isn’t talking—Annette all but bounces from place to place even when it makes him fear that she will hurt herself. She talks a mile a minute, and it is a challenge just to keep up with her. And when she thinks he isn’t paying attention, she hums to herself.

It reminds him of his sister, Leandra, though he thinks Annette outpaces her by far when it comes to the sheer amount of energy in her person. It makes his heart ache, and he does not let himself wonder what kind of person Leandra Molinaro would have become, had she lived. Still, he cannot help but wonder if she would have relied on him, the way Annette does now.

It is enough for him to tell her that she need only ask for his help, should she need it.

As a rule, Dedue avoids the cathedral that looms over the rest of the monastery, separated as it is by a great bridge. He attends the church’s services when he must, but he is no believer. The way the priests speak of the Fódlan Goddess is at odds with what he has been taught—that they assert she is the one and only Goddess, the sole guiding light for humanity, only leaves a bitter taste upon his tongue. The Church of Seiros, he has learned, is close-minded at its best, and the weight of their judgment chafes. But His Highness has requested that he find Mercedes, and so off to the cathedral he goes.

That she inquires about Duscur’s religion is surprising. That she wants to hear more of it, understand it, is downright shocking. Dedue is hesitant to speak of it at first, fearing he might be accused of heresy in addition to the crime of regicide which hangs above all his people, but she coaxes story after story out of him, all with a few simple words.

_Duscur is gone, but he is still here_. And so he speaks, slowly, haltingly, telling her more and more of what he remembers and it frightens him, how much he has forgotten—the details of stories he once knew like the back of his hand, the meanings of offerings he remembers helping his parents prepare.

Mercedes always listens intently, a plate of sweets ( secret Martritz recipes, she says, when she offers to teach him to make them himself ) and a handkerchief and a warm touch whenever he needs them. Oftentimes, the embroidery in her lap lies forgotten as they talk, and though he balks at the idea of group gatherings, of joining his classmates around the campfire after the end of a grueling mission, it is always Mercedes who tugs him into their circle.

There, Mercedes enjoys spinning tales of lost souls wandering the earth, of monsters which delight in finding new victims. Marianne always seems uncomfortable with stories of the latter, though, and it does not escape Dedue’s notice that Mercedes has chosen to stick with the former. Annette and Ashe are listen in horrified fascination, so drawn into her words that even sounds like the crunch of a leaf on the forest floor has them leaping from their seats and into Dedue’s sides, each one clutching his arm like a lifeline.

As Dedue struggles to free his arms and give each of them a reassuring pat on the back or on the top of the head, he reflects that the scariest thing of all is how warm he feels, settled between them, and how he has no desire, nor will, to tear himself away.

It is one thing, he thinks, to be friends ( for that is what they are, no matter how much he originally protested the idea ) with his classmates. They are largely Faerghus nobility, the kinds of people that he will likely see in court, the kinds of people with whom having a good relationship with will work in His Highness’s favor and who have sworn themselves to the crown. To befriend students from other houses…he has no reason to spend time with them. They are pleasant enough, he has learned thanks to the afterparty that the Golden Deer had thrown in the wake of the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, but he maintains his distance nonetheless.

That is…he does until he stumbles across Petra Macneary kneeling in a section of the greenhouse devoted to plants from Brigid, expression mournful. The expression she wears is one he has never seen upon her features, but one he knows all too well. Perhaps that is why he steps off his usual path, his footsteps heavy as he approaches her.

It is only once he is at her side that he realizes he has no idea what to say.

“Are you all right?” he asks at last, knowing the answer is no. Petra stiffens, peering up at him with a carefully blank expression, a mask that he knows like a second skin, before her expression crumples once again.

“I am missing home,” she says, reaching to touch the petals of a particularly vibrant flower. After inspecting that there is room for him to join her, he kneels down next to her. He is being soft, softer than he ought to be, but her pain is one that he can sympathize with better than most, and he feels a certain…responsibility, perhaps, to ease her mind if he can. “Dedue, may I be asking you a question?” He nods. “How do you do it?” His brow furrows.

“I’m afraid I do not know what you speak of.”

“You are already knowing that I am from Brigid,” she says, voice low. Even as she speaks, she is looking beyond him—for eavesdroppers, he assumes. “But…I came to Fódlan not for studying, but as a hostage to stop Brigid from rebelling against the Empire.” In truth, he as assumed as much, yet to hear it from Petra herself still has him grimacing in sympathy. “It feels like a knife against my throat. But Edelgard has never forced me to be serving her.” _Ah_.

“You misunderstand,” he says quietly. “I serve His Highness out of choice.”

“Oh. My apologies. I…” She glanced away from him. “When I heard about Duscur, I thought…that perhaps, you were like me.” Indeed, Dedue can see why she would have thought so. They are both far from the remnants of their people, their loved ones killed by the Empire and by the Kingdom respectively in retribution for daring to turn against the crown. “Not that I would be wishing it for you,” she adds quickly, looking guilty. “Just that—”

“You thought I would understand.” She nods.

“Edelgard is always saying I am her equal. She is never forcing me, is even wanting to free Brigid one day, but I…” Her hands curl into fists, and she says in barely a whisper, “I hate the Empire, and I am always resenting my position. Sometimes, I think I am close to bursting.” Dedue closes his eyes, and resigns himself to… _something_. Even if they do not become friends, such honesty cannot simply be brushed aside.

“Sometimes,” he says at last, voice trembling. It feels as if his throat is constricting, an attempt at keeping his unvoiced thoughts within him. If he speaks, there is no going back for him—this he knows. Even so, he presses on. “I hate Faerghus and its people, too.” The words are barely a whisper, but Petra smiles sadly at him.

“Come,” she says at last, rising to her feet and brushing dirt from her uniform. “I am knowing a place—a place we can forget where we are.” Dedue blinks up at her. Truthfully, he ought to return to His Highness. But His Highness is… _probably_ safe within the monastery walls, despite the events of this year, and he finds himself standing, letting her take his hand to tug him along.

In the end, they end up in a small clearing not too far outside the monastery’s walls. Petra tells him to wait for a moment, leaving Dedue to stand in the clearing awkwardly all on his own until she returns. With her is Cyril, who doesn’t seem particularly enthused about being pulled away from his work, and one Claude von Riegan, who comes bearing what seems to be a picnic basket, of all things.

“You know, I always did want you to join us,” Claude says with a toothy grin. “Never did know how to ask you, though.” Dedue’s gaze flicks to the braid he wears, recognizing it in a way most of the other students do not. “But better late than never, eh? Welcome to the Outsiders Club.”

“Do ya really have to call it that?” Cyril asks, frowning. “It’s not like we’re anything special.”

“Well, maybe not,” Claude allows as he starts to unpack what he’s brought. A tea set comes out, along with some snacks that are _definitely_ not like the ones they serve in the dining hall. Petra moves to help him, and he flashes her a grateful smile, one that’s softer and unlike the wide grins he usually wears. “So—we have some Almyran pine needle tea and _zoolbia_ along with some spiced cookies from Brigid.”

“You do this…often?” His brows furrow.

“Nah, not really,” Cyril admits, sitting cross-legged on a blanket Claude had brought. “We’re all too busy for that—especially Shamir. But it’s nice, sometimes.” _To be with people like you_ goes unsaid. Petra smiles at him, uncertainly but encouraging, and Dedue sits.

Perhaps next time, he will have the courage to bring them something of his homeland, too.

As he meticulously dons his armor in preparation for the Empire’s strike on Garreg Mach, he thinks of them. The upcoming battle is one that he is more than willing to fight, if only because His Highness demands the Adrestian Emperor’s head and a blood price for the day which set them on this course. But now…

Now, there are people other than Prince Dimitri he wishes to see alive and well when the dust clears. And while he is prepared to give his life for His Highness’s sake, he prays he will be alive and well to meet them when it ends.


End file.
